


No More Infinity War

by CelestKing (Celeste666)



Category: Captain America (Movies), MCU, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Steve Rogers - Fandom
Genre: F/M, romantic alternate universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 20:16:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12872181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celeste666/pseuds/CelestKing
Summary: Slipping into an alternate universe Steve falls for a mysterious asset with the power to reunite the Avengers and rearrange the future Thanos has planned, if they can only survive.





	No More Infinity War

NOT A PART OF THIS OP  
"Ummm.” She heard the now familiar voice down beside her but kept her eyes tightly closed. “Did nobody mention that you weren’t supposed to be part of this operation?” Warmth mixed with the exasperation? She raised a finger.

“I’m pretty sure there was a double negative in there somewhere.” She quipped.

He sighed. She heard the crowd shuffle again.

“OK doc,” another familiar accent drifting down from above her along with the jingle of keys, cuffs and other cop what-not. “Definite red card on the play. Immediate ejection from the game.”  
“Javier, Man!” she gestured. “You had no angle on that play!” Snapped her eyes back shut.  
“Oh,” he interrupted. “So, I knew you’d object; already consulted the cameras see…” She heard rustling; slit her eyes open. Steve was rising to stand, extending his hand.  
“Officer, Steve Rogers.” He introduced himself.  
“Yeah,” Javier shaking his hand. “Made you weeks ago.”  
“ ’Cause of course,” she continued from where she lie, flat on her back on the filthy floor, “no reason for anyone to have introduced you guys.”  
“So, what’s on camera?” Steve asked.  
“Oh, it’s good – the tackle. Actually, already downloaded it to my phone.”  
“Hey!” Cedar started to object, sit up. Felt a stab and yelped, went back down on her right elbow, easing herself to the floor. Both men were hovering now, one on either side.

Javier whispering “Old injury? Left side, right? I mean, ribs on the left, collarbone?”

“Pretty. Much.” She said slowly, exhaling with intention.

“Old injury?” Steve asked.

“Yah, probably from slide tackling someone.” Javier, deftly brushed it off but began texting.

“As you well know, a slide tackle is a perfectly legal maneuver...” attempting to play along as pain got in the way.

The cop interrupted, louder, “If you’re going for the ball lady, and never from behind! Tell me doc, you’re in the subway, did I miss the ball?” She laughed, sucked in a breath.

“Hey,” Javier’s hand light on her right shoulder. “Now, let's not puncture a lung with any re-broken ribs, OK?” Tone suddenly serious.

“Ambulance?” asked Steve tightly.

“5-7 minutes out.” Javier responded.

“But” Steve began. She felt something unspoken pass between the men that made him stop. She sneaked a look and found Steve frowning down at her. His face softened.  
“Hey…” he began. She snapped her eyes shut.  
“Cedar.” Stern, exasperated. Forced sigh, then a different tone. “What’s a slide tackle?”

“Oh!” Of course, he probably didn’t know a thing about soccer. She rotated her face his way, careful of the throb developing in her neck. “Futbol!” she clarified with a gentle fist pump, as Javier chuckled. “It’s this move where a player sort of...Well, you do this move that looks kind of like sliding into a base in baseball, right?” Checking to see if he was following. He nodded eyes locked on hers.  
“So, feet first, one foot slightly in front of the other, timing it so you sort of thread the needle between the other player’s feet, the one dribbling the ball.” Checking his face again for understanding.  
“Time it right, and the ball pops right out the other side, and they totally overrun it. If you’re still on your feet you run right behind them and pick up the ball. Or one of your other players picks it up.” She gestured toward herself, lying there. “If, say, you fall down.” Smiled.

“OK,” Steve nodded then looked at Javier. “Is this a level 2 or a level 3 concussion I’m looking at?”

“UH!” Cedar tsked and snapped her eyes shut again, with attitude. Busted.  
Javier chuckled. “Nice one. Don’t really categorize them like that anymore, by pupil size, but responsiveness wasn’t so hot when I shined my pin light in there. So, definite concussion.”

“Uh, huh.” Steve said.

“Hey,” she resumed arguing, eyes still closed, but arms up gesturing. “Did I take him down? I took him down right?”

“Yes, yes you did. And yourself too. You took him down and,” he pause “concussed…yourself.” Another sigh, but the warmth undeniable. Beyond the pain a tingle.

“OK,” Javier speaking and moving to stand. Through the roaring still in her ears she thought she could hear sirens. Crackling of static then Javier responding.

“Say again?” That was Steve, standing too. “OK, be right there.”

She opened her eyes in time to see him kneeling back down. She tried to throw him shade but the lurch in her stomach told her she’d only managed to cross her eyes. He touched something behind his ear. Oh, ‘on coms’ was something she’d heard them say. He’d been listening to someone else on the team, and was responding to them.  
He looked at her, bit his bottom lip. Looked around. Javier was gone, probably clearing the way for EMTs.

“I gotta run – uh – check out something, but…” she was nodding.

“Sure, of course.” She began.

“Do you, uh, have a card or something?” He was still looking around, scanning the chaos she was guessing. The ‘goon,’ as she was now calling him, had grabbed her bag. She was pretty sure she’d broken a heel, and that her stockings were trashed, but someone had slipped her Baglucci under her head as a cushion.

“Yeah, sure.” she was reaching around carefully with her right arm and sliding it out from under.  
“No wait, it’s OK, I…” he was still looking around.

“Here,” she pushed it towards him. “Just unzip the pocket on the back. Cards are in there.”

He fumbled with the purse, unzipped the back, took a card and put it in his shirt pocket. Now he was sliding the bag back toward her, lifting her head gently, his big hand warm on the back of her neck. She shifted, trying to focus on his face, too close, all jawline; clenched.

Shaking his head, “Geez, Cedar,” he said, speaking low, eyes on hers. A quiet, soft moment. Or maybe the haze of concussion…

Javier was striding back, too loud, too much light, three EMTs with a stretcher.  
“Oh, Javi!” She nearly swore, but half-swooned instead. He knelt again.  
“Hey doc. Relax OK? Let these good folks do their jobs.” Sterner tone again, then “Let’s keep those pretty green lights on, yeah?”

Saw Steve shift his gaze back to Javier, getting fuzzy, standing, extended his hand again. “Good to meet you. Try to keep her off the field?” Inclining his head toward the floor.

“I’m just one man.” Javier smiling.

She closed her eyes.

 

‘That,’ he thought to himself, ‘was really not OK.’  
‘But what??’ he argued back. ‘No harm done.’ This op was over, they had someone in custody, maybe more by now.  
‘Still not OK’ came the echo, keeping the debate alive, hustling through the subway and starting up the stairs.  
‘Hang on…’ came a thought. ‘What would Buck say?’  
‘Nope, don't go there!’ announced the other side, but he couldn’t help but smile. Bucky. His friend would’ve moved on her three days into the operation. The smile and frown chased each other across his face. It'd be great to talk to that friend, that particular friend, right now. Clenched his teeth.  
His pocket buzzed and rang as his feet hit the top step. He grabbed it answering, “Rogers.”

“Steve,” It was Natasha, direct, a little cross. ‘Crap!’ He thought.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” He depressed the button on the device behind his ear.

“Something wrong with coms?” she asked, now in his head.

“No, no” he began and wondered if he was going to…”Maybe the subway?” Lie? It looked that way. Shook his head. “You copy?”

“I copy.” The voice in his ear clear and close, suspicion in her voice.

‘Not OK,’ in his own head.

 

The EMTs had her out on the sidewalk, the ambulance pulled alongside. She was semi-reclined in the stretcher about to be loaded in. Oh, boy. He’d received word that she wanted to talk to him, refusing to leave until she did.  
She’d seen him, was shifting to sit up further. He waved her back and jogged the last few paces.  
“What’s up,” he asked, thinking of nothing better.  
“Well, what happened!” she demanded in a hiss. “Nobody’s telling me anything.”  
“Oh,” Relief. “They got the guy,” he smiled thinking the one she ‘took down.’ “…and recovered your bag.”  
“Huh,” she nodded. “Excuse me,” politely to the EMT nearest, “could we have a minute?” She asked. The guy shrugged and huffed off. She rolled her eyes.

He continued quietly. “Someone with DOD has your bag. They’ll want you to check the contents.”

“Yeah,” she seemed distracted. Then, “What else happened?” He drew back a bit. She watched his face. Yep, there it was, the eyebrows knitting.

“You’d be a terrible poker player, by the way, you know that?” she asked.

“What?” shaking his head. He'd heard it before.

“You’re full of tells.” Now that she could focus a little better she’d decided to try staring him down. Bad idea. In response he’d shifted closer, fuzzed out, her stomach lurched, and she had to close her eyes.

“Alright, what do you know, Cedar?” tense whisper, and she felt him leaning down, his hands grip the rail of the stretcher. “…and by the way, what got in to you? Why in hell’d you tackle that guy?!”

She mustered a look and challenged “You first.”

He tilted his head away from her, muttering under his breath. He looked down the street. Really annoyed? Annoyed? Mildly annoyed? Then blue eyes back on her.  
“They went for DeFries at the same time.” Stopped to gauge her reaction, watched her struggle to get him in focus.

“He’s OK.” she stated. Now Steve looked up again, studying the buildings? The sky?  
“Yeah… that’s not exactly how I’d put it.” Face serious.

“Whadd’a you mean?” she asked.

“He rolled right over. The whole team – two teams , overheard it. Three guys trapped him on a landing in a stairwell. We had teams right there; one on the landing above, one just below. He was never even in danger.” She was nodding.  
“They asked if he was the Bill DeFries who did the Crypto-Genetics paper.” He paused, face starting to itch a bit with coming shame.

“And!” She prompted.

“He says something like ‘Yes, but I think it’s Dr.Wexler you’re looking for. It’s her research that’s borne out the potential…” he stopped realizing he’d dropped into mimicking the DeFries' pompous vibe.

Cedar’s mouth was a wide O, jaw dropped. “What?!!” she shouted, throwing up her hands, sitting straight up.  
“Cedar, I’m sorry, I'm sorry. Look, I shouldn’t have…” he began.

She stared back at him, widely dilated eyes making her look a little less than sane. Dropped her hands back into her lap.  
“He gave me credit?!” she demanded, half shouting, half declaring; to him, to no one. “Bastard finally gives me some credit and…” Two EMTs, all frowns, were hurrying over.

“Hey, hey” Steve took a hand in his. “Easy does it, OK? You need to….” Interrupted by the EMTs.

“Sir, I’m sorry but her BP and heart rate are already …”

“Oh, my heart rate's always high! I told you that.” she said, swatting at the EMT but leaning back anyway. “I’m fine. I’m good. One more minute, OK?! Is Stephen even over there yet?” She was shoo-ing them off, but he saw a grimace of pain as she settled back. He softened his grip.  
“Did they have guns?”  
The question surprised him, then a bulb went off. “No. No guns.”

“Huh.” She bit her lip. The pause filled, slow, like water filling a footprint in saturated ground.

“Yeah, it’s almost like I had it backwards this whole time.” Suddenly a question or an accusation in his voice. She closed her eyes again.

“Why’d you go after that guy? What’s on your computer, Cedar?” His voice soft. Her eyes blinked open.

“That’s not…” she started then stopped, closed them again, getting tired, the light too bright, the street too loud.

“It’s not that. There’s nothing I can think of in that bag or on that computer.” She sighed. “He made me mad.” She started. Heard a noise, close, a snort, sigh, laugh?

“And you are one of those women who chases purse snatchers, I’m guessing?” He asked.

“Caught.” She clarified, smiling. “Caught a purse snatcher.”

Now he reached, surprising himself, squeezed her hand. She risked a look, guessing he’d be frowning or shaking his head.  
But he was staring at her, serious. His look asking for her to go on.

“Well, I got so close that he threw it back at me.” She continued, knowing that’s not what he wanted. Bit of a grin but eyes still urging her back on topic.

“Oh, OK.” She blew out a breath. “He said he’d shoot Mr. America.” She admitted.

“Mr. America?” A half laugh, half question.

“Yes. He said he’d seen us in the square and that he’d shoot you if I didn’t come with him.”

He straightened up, frowning now. Great.

“I knew you’d gone around in front of us. After he got the bag and was running off, I could see you on the other side of the turnstile. He was reaching around behind him Steve, to his waistband, he had a gun under his jacket.” She was urging him to understand.

“Cedar,” he began, then stopped. “Well, I guess this backfired.”

“What? How do you mean?”

“Me. Being conspicuous was supposed to keep you safe.”

“Well, I am safe” she protested.

“You’re concussed,” his hands now light on her shoulders, guiding her back.

“But I’m not shot or kidnapped! You have people in custody…” still protesting, but letting him take her weight.

“Look, you need to get to the hospital.” Now he was motioning to the EMTs.  
“Steve, wait.” She was settling back though, letting the EMTs adjust the stretcher to recline, prepare to load her into the ambulance.

“Yeah?” he asked across the woman with the radio.

“My card…” she began. “You asked for my card. Did you have another question? Is there some follow up or something?”

The woman with the radio stepped into the ambulance. Moment of truth.  
He stepped close, leaned down and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, soft, gentle. Eyes brightening at her surprise.

“Nope,” he admitted.  
“I just wanted your phone number.”

 

 

POST-OP

 

“So” said a voice in his ear.  Oh no.

“Guess I know why you turned off coms.”

“Hi, Nat.” He said, thinking he might be blushing, annoyed at the thought.  It seemed like he’d only just turned from watching them put Cedar into the ambulance, red coat, navy skirt, brown boots disappearing.

The feel of her soft cheek still vivid.  What had she felt like?  That skin, tinted with freckles, smooth, soft.  Could skin feel creamy?  Whipped cream.  An intact memory of a Christmas morning, pancakes and real cream, whipped with sugar in a metal bowl.  Hot pancakes and cool sweet cream melting in his mouth.  Now he was blushing.

“Steve!” Natasha, loud.

“Yes! Yes, yes. I’m right here Nat!” cross.  Looking around.

“Right where? Your three streets past the entrance.” She insisted.

He looked at the corner.  Damn.  Wait…

“Hey – how do you know where I am?” 

A sigh in his ear.  “Steve,” trying to muster some patience.  “Do you have a phone in your pocket?”

 

 

**"Man-Up," Captain - A Plan**

Any time now.  He’d been watching the sun advance slightly to the left each morning as it came up over the last week.  It seemed more obvious this time of year; how the sun moved sideways along the horizon and then back again through the seasons.  Maybe it was just being out this early and sitting here, not the usual morning run, just sitting in the same place days in a row.  He took the lid off his cup and looked to the bottom.  Time for a refill.  He stood, huffed into chilly hands, stomped his feet, mostly for show, folded, then tucked the newspaper under his left arm.  An unexpected crackle, as he’d started to move, made him wonder if his knees needed oiling.  Shook his head slightly.  Never enough sleep.  Definitely needed more coffee.

“On coms.” He muttered like a ventriloquist.

 

“Morning, Stevo!” Natasha sounded unusually cheery.

 

“Rogers.” He joked.  This.  Every time, the same joke.

 

“Soooooo.  Asset is requesting contact.”  It wasn’t a question but her pitch went up at the end of the phrase.

Weird.  Or was it?  This was far from their usual op, and what was that anyway these days? New York a sanctuary city for just about everyone, including heros on the run. But Nat had tracked them down, they were needed. Now this weird… If he hadn’t heard the Doctor’s presentation he wouldn’t’ve been convinced but...

 

“Want to arrange a meet?” Nat interrupted his musing, “Or just do it in the open?  You aren’t exactly hiding.”

 

“Yeah, no, you’re right.” He faked a cough for cover, turned his head.  “Might as well take care of it now.  There’s this bench at the southeast corner of the square, about 200 yards from the coffee kiosk she visits every morning.”

 

“OK, I’ll tell her.  She wanted to know if she should initiate.” Ironic, awkward.  Nat was lovin’ this.  "I told her you would."

 

Shook his head. “Alright.” he sighed.   He could practically hear her grin.

Twenty minutes later, right on schedule, she was buying coffee, shifting cash from her bag.  A quick chat with the barista and she was walking his way.  From behind the paper he surveyed the square.  No one unusual.  She was approaching. Dr. Cedar Wexler, Biology at Columbia. He’d gotten used to seeing her from a distance, the way she moved, posture erect, quick pace but not quite hurrying.  He’d deliberately spread out the paper across the bench, undeniably rude in New York, but his best idea.  Why was this kind of strategy so much harder?

 

She paused, “You mind?” her hand indicating the bench.

 

Only half looking up, “Oh, Geez.  No, sorry.”  Scooping up some of the papers, making room.

 

“Thanks.”  She sat her bag and purse down between them, swept a hand under her to tuck her coat, and sat.  He risked a look, corner of his eye.  Bright red coat, as usual, and cheeks rouged by the cold.  He’d actually hardly ever seen her up close, in the light; just that dim evening in the auditorium. What now? OK.

He slapped the back of his hand against the paper, a slap of frustration, typical New York - a big, loud gesture.  And backfire. She startled - huge startle.  Her coffee almost sloshed into her computer bag. She was gripping the cup too hard.

 

“Sorry!” he blurted, wrapping big hands around the cup to steady it.  She took a breath and looked up at him. Green flashing in the sun. He’d never seen anything like it.

 

“Ummm, it’s OK.” She said straight into his eyes. “Guess I’m jumpy today.”  She was gently taking back the coffee.

 

“Yeah,” he said, forgetting to let go.  Empty air.  Staring across the steam rising.  She glanced down at the cup.

 

Damn.  He pulled his hand away, sat straight.  “Well, it’s the weather.”  He declared picking the paper back up. 'The weather?' thinking to himself cringing. Really?

 

“Yeah?” she said. Tone full-throttle skeptical, like maybe she couldn’t believe it either.

 

“Yeah, well, that’s just what I was thinking when I, uh, startled you, and sorry…”

 

“No, I think that was pretty much me.” She responded.

He shook his head at the paper.  “So, they’re saying rain, maybe even some sleet by end of day.” Nodding toward the open paper then letting it crumple into his lap.  “I was just going to say, ‘I need a bookie.’” He looked at her.  Looked away.

 

She was staring back. “A bookie?” She responded.  “Can’t help you.” Shook her head.

 

“Yeah, well.  Do people bet on the weather? ‘Cause it’s a beautiful morning.  Fog’s already burned off.  I sit out here,” he paused, looking for a narrative.  Squeezed his eyes closed.  This was excruciating… “most days.” Now actually trying not to laugh at himself, wincing at his own incompetence. “All these past few mornings, mostly same as this one and it’s beautiful, all day long.  I wouldn’t bet on sleet.”  He finally stopped.  Was he faking an accent?  This was awful.  Who was he even trying to channel here?

 

“Well,” she said, taking a sip of coffee.  “I don’t think you want a bookie.  Don’t believe in gambling myself, but that’s not why.”  Another sip.  She looked up, then around the square, squinted into the sun over the river, eyes catching the light, holding it there.  Green, green eyes.

“Weather’s complicated, lots of variables,” she went on.  “And you’d better believe people bet on it, but…” she paused, shifting her body to face him.  “See that smoke across the river? It’s falling, drifting, not rising, see? So, I’d wager on rain today, at least by dusk…and yeah, maybe even sleet.”

Fascinating.

But down to business, he stretched his arm across the back of the bench between them, securing the space, then, as if continuing the conversation, began “So, now that that’s over with how about I stop embarrassing myself?  What’s up?"

 

“Well,” smiling into her coffee, “don’t be so hard on yourself.  I guess this is a strange request.  So, here’s the thing.   I got a phone call last night…” she stopped as he shifted again, scooted a little closer, brushing the papers into a pile and touching a spot behind his ear, nodding for her to go on.

“Uh, my neighbor Marissa, she’s a friend, daughter of the guy who owns the restaurant and coffee bar, the gelato place down at the other end.”  She was gesturing and pointing with the coffee cup.

His eyes following the cup now came back to the pavement, trying to tilt his head so Natasha could hear, but looking at feet.  Small-ish,interesting shoes.  She wasn't wearing boots today.

“Whole family works around here.  Kind of adopted me."  She continued.  He noticed the way her stockings darkened at the ankle, faded as they stretched up her leg, thinning to grey around the curves.

"So, she called to tell me she’s worried, and well, her family too.”  He frowned, trying to find somewhere else for his eyes.

She kept going.  “Seems there’s this strange man who they think might be stalking me.”  His attention caught.

 

“How long’s that been going on?  This man?” He asked, looking up at her face.  She looked back, paused, raised her eyebrows.  

 

“Oh." He sat back. "So this guy…” smiling a little now. “He about 6’2? Maybe - mid-30s? Wear a leather jacket?”

 

She picked up the thread.  “Sits on this very bench mornings, and sometimes in that café’ over there late afternoons.” Nodding.

 

“Pretends to read?” he confirmed then went on, feeling his face stretch into  a smile, “but it’s almost like he’s…” paused for effect.  Serious stare into her eyes.  “Watching you.” She grinned at her cup. Then

“Great looking, though.” She added.

 

Felt himself blush.

Nat was laughing in his ear but her laugh bounced around fluttering inside his head, at the same time in his ribcage. Got caught in the color of her eyes again. Still squinting into the sun they were a color he couldn’t define.  The red coat, turned up against her cheeks, set them off, and the light caught there.  “OK, OK." Laughing now too, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled between them, nodding, but now looking away from her. “Cut it out, Nat” he said aloud.

 

“Oh, so you do have someone in your ear.” She asked, taking a breath and a gulp of coffee.

 

“Oh yeah, and way worse than just those voices in your head, this one. But OK, this is OK.” Repeating.  “This is great.  This is fine.” sitting back and stretching out his arm again, crossed an ankle over his knee smiling, relaxed.  “No, this is great."

“You’ve already got people looking out for you. That’s great.”  Couldn’t stop smiling.

“The point was me being visible. Well, that worked.” Streaks in the hair framing her face; blond? Gray?

 

“Mmm hmmm, but what do I tell them?” she asked.  Watched his eyebrows knit.  

She went on. “I mean, I almost started to say, ‘Hey, no worries that’s just…” she shrugged. “…these people looking out for me because of…” rolling motion with her hand, asking him ‘how do you spin this out?’

 

Shaking his head.  “Yeah, no. That’s not safest for…anyone.  They don’t need to know.”

 

She nodded.  “Exactly, less they know, the better.  I don’t want anyone here…” she stopped.  It was occurring to her for the first time.  Eyes got a little wider.  He saw her body stiffen a bit.  Could almost hear the ‘in danger’ echo in her head, her eyes roving the plaza.

 

He tapped the shoulder of her coat lightly.  She swallowed and directed her gaze back to him.  “Nobody’s gonna let that happen, right.”  Soft tone, encouraging but firm.  

 

She nodded  “So what _do_ we do here?”  He was asking.  “Wasn’t counting on great neighbors in NY.

 

“Well,” she announced.  “Marissa thinks he should ‘man up’ and ask me out.” Now she was fighting a blush, staring at her coffee again.  “I told her he sounded too young for me and…”

 

“Oh! Man-up, huh?  That’s the way it is, OK?”Natasha laughing again. That did it. Elbows back on his knees, studying his knuckles, chuckling.

“Yeah, That might work.”

 

 

WEAPONS EXPERT?

“You don’t really strike me as a weapons expert.” Awkward. He hated dates, even fake ones, trying to find something to talk about. Feeling unusually tongue tied.

 

She swallowed and coughed.  “Oh yeah?” 

 

“No.” He backed his tone down a bit, awkward, stabbed at his salad, the fork feeling small in his hand.

 

“ ‘Cause I’m not.”  She finally said.

 

He’d looked back up then.  “Oh, well, your bio…”

 

“I work, occasionally,” she clarified, “with the weapons division of the Defense Department.”

 

He looked across the table, into the silence.  “Well, that clears it up.” 

 

She smiled, popped a garlic bread bite into her mouth.  “So what is it you were imagining me doing in the weapons division at the DOD?”

 

“That’s what I can’t figure,” he went back to pushing around the salad, then stabbing a cherry tomato.  “I mean, you teach Biology at the University, and the weapons division...” He was frowned shaking his head, eyes up from the tomato, on her.

 

“OH! GOD, no!” she coughed again, nearly spitting bread-stick, paused.  “OK, OK, I see how you could read it that way but... I’d never… ugh, no.” 

Silence filled with clinking glasses, silverware on plates, the click of heels on polished floors.  

 

“Actually, though. To be fair” she offered. “I was once asked to consult on the feasibility of weaponizing poison ivy.”  

 

He looked up to see if she was joking.  The candle flicker was playing on her face, shadowing her eyes, dancing across her cheeks.   She raised her glass and her eyebrows.  “For real.”  He kept staring so she went on.  “Urushiol, the oil from poison ivy, oak, sumac, causes a blistering rash, discomfort and can interfere with sleep, concentration.”  She explained.

 

“Yeah, I’ve had it.  In Germany.” Still watching her, was she kidding?  “Its awful stuff. This one guy, got it in his eyes.”  

 

“Yeah, it can be pretty debilitating, especially if you formulate it in a concentrated dose.”Nodding, she downed the last of her wine. “– but almost 90% non-lethal.” She added, sitting down the glass, gaze holding his.

 

He inclined his head, raised his fork.  “Touché,” and went after another tomato.

She knew everyone - diners, wait staff.  Even the owner had come over when their entrée arrived, bringing a bottle of red, ‘on the house.’  After a brief exchange in some halting Italian and a kiss on each cheek, ‘Sandro had left them. 

“What a sweetie.” Shaking her head after him.  “Papa ‘Sandro.”  She looked at the bottle.  Eyes on him.

 

'Oh!' “What next?” he asked awkwardly. Trying to smile, probably a grimace.  He was so good at this. Every reason to avoid dating, fake or not.

 

“Just pour some in your glass and wait a minute or two, swirl it around.  Be sure to sniff before you drink it.” Technical, calm, careful instruction.

 

“Right, ‘cause see, I do this all the time.” ‘Loosen up, man.’ to himself.

 

“Well, you look right at home.  Just keep smiling because they’re watching… and deep inhale.” She smiled.

 

“And why am I doing this?” Trying to execute a swirl in the glass.

 

“Oh, to oxygenate the wine a bit.  Red only though, not white.  Then you smell it to give your brain a hint about what’s coming.  About 60% of tasting is actually smelling.”  Professor talking, nice.  He inhaled, but a different scent came to mind, the scent rising out of her warm coat as he’d helped her out of it an hour ago.  Heady memory; staring down at the back of her neck.  Then the wine hit.

 

“Huh,” he held out the glass, studying the color in the candle light.

 

“Smiling” she said again.

 

He smiled into the glass, inhaled again and drank.  Wow. Maybe the first time ever he’d really tasted something in wine.  “That’s good.” 

 

Smile all the way up to her eyes, face glowing.  “Yeah?  Glad you like it.  Don’t drink much red?  Wait’ll you have it with that sausage.  ‘Sandro knows how to do a pairing.  Now, pour me a little.” Reaching across the printed vinyl cloth, he tilted the bottle and, “Whoa! Whoa!” she held her hand over the top.  Giggled.

 

“Sorry.” He glanced up, gritting his teeth.

“No, no, no problem” she shook her head, still grinning, and “No trouble.  They’ll just all think you’re trying to get me drunk,” a smirk at the table cloth. Then looking at him “…and don’t pour yourself any more than that.  You really don’t drink much wine do you?”

He sighed toward the glass.  So much to explain.

Toward the end of the entrée conversation lagged.  They’d been talking and talking as the restaurant emptied.  Interesting to talk to someone new, someone part of a completely different world. But, now was she bored ?  Back to the weather? Geez…

 

“So what do you do with DOD” trying to rescue the conversation, picking back up the thread.

 

“Weellll” she drew out the word, swirling wine in her glass.  “I could tell you but…” her smile was a little lopsided now, eyes shiny.  Not bored, relaxed.  His chest loosened.

 

“Right, right.  Then you’d have to kill me, got it.” Envying that boozy relaxed people got from alcohol.  Ashamed at himself for the thought.

 

“No really, I thought they would’ve” she was waving a hand like trying to invoke a word, “briefed you all or something.”

 

“Nope.” He sat back.

 

“Huh, I guess I think that’s odd.”

 

“Guess that whoever makes that call thinks it’s only ‘need-to-know’.” He explained.

 

“But doesn’t that bother you?” She was leaning forward onto the leg crossed under the table.  Not enough neckline to the cream colored sweater.

 

“Not really.” Words caught in his throat, redirected his eyes.  “Well sometimes.  When you find out, after the fact, that what someone decided not to tell you really would’ve been helpful.”

 

“Yeah! I couldn’t stand that.” She declared.  “I’m just so…curious I guess. I couldn’t stand it.”  

He could see it, believe it.  What’d she do in the time when she wasn’t ‘his watch.’  What was her apartment like?  Books, he imagined.  Bet she was a reader.  Did she like movies? Was she an outdoor type?  Was it OK to ask? OK to wonder?

 

“But I guess,” she was going on.  “Maybe if you know too much, if there are too many variables, then it’s too hard to make quick decisions?”  She was really asking, curious about his world.  Engaging him, waiting for an answer.

 

“Well, uh,”  He shifted in his seat. How to answer a question like that?  Explain things that are instinct?  “You want all the, uh, intelligence you can get, but, of course, you rarely even get what you need.” He explained.  She was nodding.  “Most of the time you take stock of what you’ve got, and you just assume some of it’s gonna be wrong, or at least flawed.  You have to go in knowing that you’ll have to change the plan.  You’ll have to adapt at best and just…improvise, at worst.”  Tried a swig of the wine remaining in his glass. 

She was still nodding, watching his hands move along the table like he was tracing a map.  She smiled as Lucia cleared the table.  Then, all of a sudden, her face went still and she closed her eyes.

 

“Improvise.”  She let out a slow breath.  Took a sip of water.  “I used to love that word.  It’s actually from Italian – to sing poetry.” She was kneading her napkin in her lap.  “Now all I can think of is IEDs.” 

He watched her face.  

“That’s what I do with DOD.”  Her tone was lower now even though no one was sitting nearby.  “Kind of a sniffer dog.”

Where was this coming from? 

“God!  I’m sorry.” She put her napkin on the table.  A waiter was approaching with a bottle.  “Bourbon? Yes! I need one.  You? Oh, right.”

“So a dowser?”  He couldn’t grasp it. 

“Yep, that’s the ‘folk’ term, Appalachian term, what I heard growing up.”

“But I didn’t think stuff like that was real – like snake oil salesmen and, charlatans.” His tone was open, but skeptical.  He was willing to believe, just struggling.  She helped them look for unexploded ordnance, in the ground, in harbors, could see things; old stuff, or shiny new.

The wine had now carried away the horrors of IEDs and she was back again.

“Charlatans…I like that, and gypsies too.  No actually… as you can imagine,” she stopped. “Oh no.” Looked at him across the table, smile definitely a little lopsided, bit her lip.  

 

“What?” he asked.

 

Leaned her cheek into her hand, grinning. “My friends tell me when I hear myself say “actually” I should stop talking; that I’ve slipped into academic mode.” Pressed her eyes closed, wrinkling her nose. “I’m thinking I’ve said actually about five times now.”

 

“Well don’t stop. I like academic. This is the best conversation I’ve had in…” stopped. “Well. I’m not going to finish that sentence.” Tried the bourbon. She was staring at him. He choked a little. “Really, go on.”

 

“OK, you asked for it. Actually,” she paused, smiling. “ I’ve done a fair amount of research on this,” tone a bit self-mocking.  “There’s evidence across cultures and throughout history of people who claim to, and actually seem to have been able to find things –” speeding up now “... mostly water, underground, or in other geologic formations.  Big oil speculators.”

 

He shook his head. “But that’s amazing.”  Looked at her, struck again by the candle light caught in her hair, in those eyes.  “What’s it like?” all he could think of to say.

 

“I guess,” she began.  “Well, I usually use seeing as the best analogy, but it’s not like seeing at all.  I can’t close my eyes and shut it off.  It’s just another thing I’m perceiving all the time.  I can tell you where the pipes are in the building, and under it, and the wiring, I’ve trained myself to recognize what it’s made of.” Nodding.

 

“So how did this happen” getting easier now, thinking of his own experience.  “Have you always had this or did something…” ‘trigger it.’ Thinking to himself, the choice he’d made, the pain and the brightness - transformation.  But she was shaking her head, swirling the last of the dinner wine.

 

“Born this way, far as I can tell.  Never known otherwise.  First story I know about, I was four.  Evidently I used to play in this one spot outside, near the corner of the house, my dad’s home place, where we grew up.  I called it “the water.”  I would say I was going to go play in the water, or wanted to go play in the water.  Finally one day, mom got a wild hare or something, I think she finally  _ got it _ somehow.   She talked my older brothers, twins, into getting shovels and the mattock, told them we were gonna dig for buried treasure.”  She slowed down.  “Just a couple feet down they hit old boards, rotting.” Sighed.  “Boys got all excited. My one brother, Matthew, took the mattock to them.” Face losing light. “It was an old cistern.  He fell through.”  Full pause, eyes closed.  “He nearly drown.  They were 9.” 

“Damn!” she cursed. Making him jump. “Sorry!” Gulping the last of the wine and picking up the bourbon, trying on a smile. “Sorry. I’m just...”

 

“No, it’s, it’s amazing” wanting so badly to bring back the light, jostle away the bad memory.  “But…you said other people in history?”

 

“Jacob found wells for his people, right?” she shrugged. “It’s in the Bible, that encounter with the angel…must’a counted for something.”  Gulped bourbon.  Breathed in deep, rolled her shoulders back, executing a phase change; went on.

“Way I see it, reason I use sight as a metaphor… some people are color blind, right?” back into instructor mode.  He nodded.  “Most of us can see color but some people… Oh! Wait, you were in the army right?!” announcing not asking, getting more animated. Pointed at him.  “So say,” looking around, “what’s the biggest grouping in the army? Not like a platoon, but bigger a…” prompting.

 

“Brigade? Battalion?” he offered.

 

“OK, yeah. Whichever’s bigger.”

 

“Brigade can be up to 2000 people.” Confirming.  Warming into her excitement.

“OK, perfect.  So, in this brigade, a sample size that big, see -  you might have one guy, or gal, who can see, better than anyone else say… at night, or someone who can smell smoke, or gasoline, or whatever, hear tanks or trucks, way before anyone else.” Steve was nodding now, full memory.

 

“Yep, this guy in the Howling Commandos, Gabe.  His vision, at night, daytime too, it was amazing.”  He was staring back into the past, his eyes lost. “I could never decide if it was just, acuity?  Vision beyond 20x20, if that’s a thing, or if he was just better at detecting motion, or…” looked back at her, present again.

 

“Yes, that’s it exactly” she was hurrying on.  “And yeah, vision can be better than 20x20, that’s the thing.  I’m just an extension, way I see it, an extension beyond normal perception.”  Her hands in the air miming a line, or an arc like a rainbow, indicating a spectrum.

 

“Quite an extension.” He shook his head, smiling.

Her eyes skipped away. She sipped more bourbon. “So water and metals?” He asked.

 

“Yep," nodding. "Oil.” Shook her head, rolled her eyes.  “Long story, that.”

 

“I like your stories.”  Popped out, now she flushed.  He noticed, but waded in further, not caring. “Longer the better.” Just wishing that bourbon would work for him.

 

She gripped her glass.  Put it against her temple, her cheek. “Mmmm. Warm in here. So, ummmm, minerals, ores, coal’s harder, so organic I guess.”  

 

Had he made her uncomfortable. This wasn’t great. Let the pause roll out.  Watched her find her breath.  Then, IED’s, he remembered, thought of wires.  A way to rescue to conversation…

“But with metal, you can see fine detail, then.”  He took a sip of water.

 

“Detail? Sweetie,” The endearment surprised him, but she was smiling now, all that mattered, even looking a little sleepy. Eyes sparkly but focused right on his face, she gestured with her glass “Hell yes.  Honey, I can count the teeth on your zipper.”

 

He couldn’t swallow the water.  She blanched, put down the bourbon. Pause.

 

Eyes pressed closed. “On your jacket.” She said through clenched teeth, but

not hiding the smile, pointing over her shoulder to indicate the coat rack, “Zipper on your jacket, right?” play acting at covering the faux pas, but also covering her eyes with her the back of her hand. “Check please?” She stifling a giggle.

  
  


**THE GAUNTLET**

 

The evening was ending too soon. He’d been hoping to sit through dessert, stretch it out at least another half hour. What was that about? She’d gone dark after the zipper comment. He’d settled up; argued appropriately about the bottle, accepted graciously. A wink from ‘Sandro, then was helping her into her coat again. One arm in, threading the other through a sleeve then sweeping her hair out of the way as he was lifting her coat. Another view down her neck, the delicate knobs of her spine.  They walked out into the cold air.

 

“Well,” she announced. “Bracing out here.” Digging her hands into pockets for gloves.

 

‘Yeah,’ he thought, felt slapped as the cold woke him. Jammed his own hands into jacket pockets. Reproach. He’d lost the whole evening. He wasn’t doing his job. Had he even checked the restaurant?  Of course he had. He’d been watching everyone all night, registering faces, the level of interest anyone seemed to have in them, in her. But he’d lost himself, enjoyed it too much. What? The conversation? Her company? Yes. Was that all bad? It couldn’t be good. Right? 

 

“Steve.” She was saying.

 

“Sorry, what?” 

 

“The gauntlet?” she was saying it again, gauntlet. 

“One more stop in running the neighborhood gauntlet?” The cold had cleared her up, eyes bright again, but questioning. She inclined her head toward the opposite end of the square. “I know it’s 48 degrees but, gelato?”

 

Almost 9:00 now, nobody at the tiny ice cream shop. He could just see one guy behind the counter. She put a gloved hand on his arm as he reached for the door. “OK,” bit her lip, looking into the shop, then at him. “This could be a little rough.” Scrunched up her face, smiled and nodded for him to open the door.

 

The young guy at the counter looked up from his phone at the jingle of the bell, did a double-take then let loose in Italian, including a “Ciao Bella!” to Cedar at some point. At all the noise another guy, about the same age, appeared from the back, another double-take, and another flood of language. Cedar was nodding, gesturing, throwing in a word here and there, rolling her eyes, then finally…

 

“Guys, guys. English, English or slower! Or both,” holding up her hands, laughing. “Please.”

 

“So this is not your brother?” the counter guy asked in perfectly unaccented English.

 

“No, Tommaso. This is Steve Rogers. I mean, Captain Rogers.”

 

“Steve.” He smiled at the guy.

 

“Steve,” introducing them “Tommaso, and Gaetano,” indicating the second guy who lifted his chin to Steve, a bit more appraising. Steve nodded.

 

“Encore’ Baccio?” Gaetano said; straight at Cedar, lifting his eyebrows and raising the scoop. Full on flirting, that, whatever it was he said.

 

“You know me well, my friend. But just un piccolo baccio.” She was flirting right back. Well, so? 

 

But she turned back to him now, cheeks pink again with cold. “What’ll you have?”

 

Well not Encore’ Baccio, that was for sure. Fronting through the disappointment.  How about “Sweet cream?” Surveying the case, then looking back at her. Nutmeg. What was he thinking of?

 

“Yeah, that’s delicious. The pistachio’s great too, of course.” She added, eyes back on the Gaetano guy, who winked at her. She went on “In the summer though, oh,” put her fingers to her lips and kissed. “What Gae can do with fresh fruit? Mmmmm. Ought to be against the law.” Sultry voice.

 

At that Gaetano blushed red and Tommaso slapped the freezer-top laughing.  “You get him. You always get him, doctor!”

 

OK, whatever. He was looking around, scanning. Pictures of kids taped to the side of the register. Wedding rings on both their fingers.

Outside he ventured, “Friendly guys.” Giving her a look.

 

“Yeah, they tease me like a sister. It’s sweet.”

 

“That one guy’s a little more than sweet.” He observed; walking toward her building now.

 

“What? You think I can’t take care of myself?” Eyebrows up. Flirting?

 

“Supposed to be watchin’ out for you, right?” Retorted, teasing. Geez! Keep it together man.

 

Sigh. “Gaetano. He’d like to think he’s a lady’s man.” She was shaking her head. “But he’s wrapped around Vanina’s little finger.”

 

“So what’s encore…” He didn’t want to risk slaughtering the word, so he gestured with his cone toward hers.

 

“Oh, yeah. Uh, it’s chocolate hazelnut.” She dodged. Took a bite.

 

“Uh, huh.” He nodded. “So which is the word for chocolate,” shot her a sideways look. “In Italian?”

 

She laughed. “OK, the flavor…” accenting the word, “is chocolate hazelnut. The  _ name _ of the flavor is Encore’ Baccio, which means” tiny pause, “another kiss.” “You know, even better than just one kiss.” Bit into the cone again, eyes scooting away.

  
  
  
  


They’d watched him away after leaving her at the door of her apartment building. “OK, so,” un-crinkling the smudged paper, “that look like her, you think?”

 

“NO,” a petulant voice answered. “This one’s in color.” Waving at Cedar’s front door.

 

“You are no help at all. Why’d I even bring you?!” The voice in the shadow of the alley frustrated.

 

“Yeah well, your usual genius, hold old is that picture? And let me add, this disguise is no picnic.” The petulant voice answered. “I think I’m getting fleas.” He complained, tugging at whiskers.

**Author's Note:**

> I covet your comments and suggestions! Please!


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